Okay so… Monday morning we woke up with the worst hangovers of our lives and very little recollection of the previous night. But we each had a reminder of the evening’s shenanigans. Tattoos. Matching f**king tattoos. Of our WEBSITE LOGO. Don’t worry, it gets even shittier. Here’s how it began.

You see, we got together Sunday night for a “business meeting” and shortly there(minutes later)after were so incredibly drunk we could barely walk without it looking like interpretive dance, let alone discussing a benign takeover of the world with our website.

But apparently not so drunk that we couldn’t cook up the then-seemingly genius idea to “revolutionize brand marketing.” I only know that I said this because of this Vine, not because I remember saying it at all. Ugh.

Nine Hours Later

We both arose from the dead the next morning with weapons-grade hangovers and, shortly thereafter, a level of regret that would qualify as a cardio workout. We each, in our own homes, had that moment when you pull off the bandage and discover… something horrible. Permanently horrible. Not just a mistake, but a legendary mistake within a mistake. MISTAKECEPTION.

Lizzie was shocked to say the least, but she could see that I was already in my own living hell and only gave me a little more. Charlie and I connected and tried to reverse-engineer the night as we raced to reconnect with our cars, already late for work. Our technology was already lighting up with concerned but cautious inquiries about what had happened. I don’t know if Charlie’s wife will ever speak to me again.

It wasn’t just that we’d gotten our website logo tattooed on ourselves, already pure tackiness. It was that it HAD A F**KING TYPO!!! It didn’t even say How To Be A DAD!!!!

Our embarrassment could not, and cannot, be measured with a billion bananas.

On our panicked call with each other, we merged in the tattoo parlor to see if we could piece together how this had happened. When we described the “artist” who’d done our “work,” the hollow-sounding girl said he wasn’t there but she also mentioned that he was new at inking and also at English.

And something that made no sense started to make some weird horrific kind of sense. Which was absolutely no relief to our shared miserable itching and stinging of our bodies, minds and souls.

The only logical next outcome was for our peeved wives to shame us, to teach us a lesson for what we’d done, and demand we post visual evidence on our own site and at least quiet the shit storm of inquiries even they were now getting. Since we were “inspired” enough to get the tattoos, they basically insisted we at least use it for a post. So, here they are…

HOW TO BE A DOG!?!?!?!

SO THAT JUST F**KING HAPPENED! Two days before April f**king’ Fools! And the joke’s on US! Literally! In permanent ink! On Charlie’s arm and on my chest! Foreeeeeeeever. Or at least until we can get it professionally mutated into our actual website name with lasering and corrective tattooing, or have them converted into some kind of giant red battleships or hearts with snakes and other nasty things to make it not so heartsy-fartsy.

There you go, everybody. You can now probably understand why we weren’t answering your messages or posting pics, and can see just how badly we’ve been gritting our teeth and wishing for a total do-over.

We feel like dogs, and we generate typos like a machine gun issues bullets, so maybe it’s our just desserts. But excuse us if we dry heave on it for a good long while.